I Shot You Babe (2 page)

“Women: you can’t live with them, and you can’t get them to dress up in a skimpy Nazi uniform and beat you with a warm squash.”

—E
MO
P
HILIPS

Ah. The Saunders County Fair in Wahoo, Nebraska. The name says it all, doesn’t it? Nothing but dirt, horseshit and fried food as far as the eye can see. Sigh. It’s paradise. I checked the crankshaft on the Tilt-A-Whirl before admitting sticky children and beer-addled adults to the ride. People expect a carney doesn’t really give a damn when he checks the safety bars and pushes the button to start the ride. But they don’t know me. I’m a firm believer in safety first, because I actually like kids. Adults, however, are more complicated.

I grinned through my beard and turned on the ride, watching as the little cars swiveled and swirled. I hadn’t had a barfer in two days, but I figured I was overdue. Sure enough, when the ride came to a stop, some green-faced teen was being led off her car. It didn’t bother me. When you eat five corn dogs with a cottoncandy chaser, then go on a ride that scrambles your insides like eggs, you have to expect a little carnage.

Oh, well. This was my last gig before heading out to Orlando. I’d have to use the solution my brilliant scientist cousin, Missi, gave me to erase the tattoos. I’d miss the beard a bit. Even though I generally lived off the grid, I was still a bit paranoid. The disguise kept me from being recognized, and the customers seemed to expect it. It came with the carney image, and I hated to disappoint anyone. I was so involved in my thoughts it took me a minute to realize the woman standing before me didn’t want a ride—at least, not on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

She looked to be in her mid- to late twenties, with chin-length blonde hair, very little makeup and a slim build. I watched for a moment as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Definitely nervous.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

She stuck out her right hand as if she had never shaken hands before. I slowly grasped it in my own and she shook it. I could feel her heart beating in her palm. Must be the beard. It scared even Sartre.

“Um, I’m Veronica Gale.” It looked as though she immediately regretted giving her last name. I took no offense. I was used to such a reaction.

“Hello, Veronica.” I thought it might be rude if I didn’t respond. Of course, I still had no idea why she was standing there, but I thought I should at least make her comfortable. And there was something about her. She wasn’t mysterious; in fact, I could read through her like tissue paper over a large-print picture book.

“I’m finishing up my master’s thesis on transient lifestyles and wondered if I could interview you?” Ms. Gale bit her lip, displaying a lack of confidence that I found a little adorable.

Ah. So that was it. An academic. You don’t see many in this line of work. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the ivory tower.

“Okay.” I stepped past her and admitted more kids to the ride. “I’ve got a break in an hour.”

Veronica jumped back as if she hadn’t noticed the people around her. “Um, fine. I’ll be back in an hour.” She paused for a second, as if her central nervous system had failed her. Finally she turned around and marched off.

Hmmm. A sheltered little thing with no life experience and plenty of attitude. How could I possibly resist? And who was I to stand in the way of a fellow academic and her quest for knowledge?

I checked all the safety bars and switched on the ride. I didn’t really have a break coming up, so I called one of the other guys on duty on my radio. Mort agreed to cover for me in a bit.

I was actually looking forward to talking to Veronica Gale, master’s candidate. I hadn’t had a date in a long time. Sure, carneys have followers—often wealthy housewives with a sexual fetish for tattooed flesh—but a real date? It was too depressing to think about. As I said, I’m a loner, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely for intelligent conversation with a woman. Most of my contact included very little discussion.

Mort showed up less than an hour later. When my “date” arrived a few seconds after, I suggested we hit the beer tent. We bought two drinks and settled at a splinter-riddled picnic table.

Veronica slid her beer to the side and pulled a notebook out of her purse. I smiled. She was starting to grow on me.

“Now, your name is…?” she asked, sounding very official. This chick had to loosen up.

“Coney Bombay.” I watched as she wrote that down. She had beautiful, slender fingers. I like that in a woman. Veronica Gale wasn’t a hottie. She was pretty in an interesting sort of way, with large, questioning green eyes, a classic European nose, a strong chin and dark blonde hair. I found her intriguing. I’d like to think she found me intriguing, but then I remembered her nervousness around me. To her, I was just some sort of hobo who still had all his teeth.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mr. Bombay.” All friendliness had gone from her voice. This woman was pure business now. At least, that was what she wanted me to think.

“Call me Cy. And no problem. This is the best proposition I’ve had all day.” I smiled, hoping to loosen her up.

It didn’t. Veronica scowled. “Fine. Cy it is. But this is not a proposition.”

“Too bad,” I responded, never taking my eyes off of hers. It unnerved her. Have you ever tried to keep your eyes on the person you are talking to? Americans aren’t used to it. They look away every now and then to fight their unease. Especially when you are a carney. Veronica was no exception.

“All right. What do you want to know regarding my…what was it? Transient lifestyle?” Hmmm…when you added the word
lifestyle
it made me sound like a hobo sporting platform sandals and lime green eye shadow.

“How long have you been employed by the…” Ms. Gale stumbled over her words in what appeared to be an attempt at political correctness. “Um…”

“How long have I been a carney?” I stepped in to rescue her. Now, why did I do that? I certainly didn’t owe this woman an explanation of my chosen profession. “Almost twelve years now. I’ve worked with a number of outfits—this one for two years.”

“And what did you do before that?”

“I was a student.” Actually, I still considered myself to be a student. But for the sake of this interview, I thought I’d keep it simple.

Veronica looked me in the eyes. She didn’t seem to believe that twelve years ago I was in high school. I could’ve helped her out, but I held back.

“How old are you?” she asked. Clearly, this woman wasn’t one for social graces. I couldn’t figure out why that was. Usually I’m good at reading people. But was she asking me as a researcher or out of her own personal curiosity?

“I’m thirty-eight.” I could see her doing the math in her head. Eventually the question would come up, and it would confuse her. For some reason, I wanted to let her off the hook. What was wrong with me? I could see Sartre rolling her eyes back in her cage in the trailer.

“I have a postgraduate degree in philosophy. I spent most of my twenties in school. Like you,” I answered before she asked.

“Like me? What do you mean?” Veronica sat straight up.

I leaned forward and looked her in the eyes again. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you appear to be about twenty-six or so. My guess is that you have been in school ever since kindergarten. I’m also guessing you’ll go for your Ph.D. as soon as you are through with your thesis.”

I expected her to be angry. Hell, I expected her to throw her beer in my face and walk off. She didn’t.

“Is it that easy to see?” Her question was strangely straightforward.

I shook my head. “No. It just takes one to know one. I did the same thing until I ran out of degrees. Then I ran away and joined the carnival.”

Veronica sighed as if she’d been holding her breath all this time. She actually reached for her beer and drained half the cup. I waited.

“Did your family harass you about it too?” She seemed to ask the question with some degree of bitterness. The tide was turning in my favor.

“No. They didn’t really mind. They weren’t even surprised when I became a carney.” That is actually true. The Bombays don’t care what your cover is. It’s merely important to have one. Well, unless you became an attorney. Then they’d probably kill you out-right.

I kind of expected Veronica to see my admission as heartening—something that would inspire her to give me her life story. She didn’t.

“So why did you take your education and throw it away for this?” She gestured around her. Did I detect disgust in her voice? How boring.

“Why not? I can’t see a better place to examine the human soul.” I folded my arms.

My interviewer snorted. “Well, Cy, it seems like a waste to me.”

So that was how it was going to be, eh?

“Tell me, Ms. Gale, what practical applications does your thesis have for everyday life?”

Her eyes snapped to mine. Gone was the brief vulnerability I’d seen earlier. I’d pissed her off. Oddly enough, I liked it.

“I don’t have to explain my intellectual interests to you!” Ooh. A defiant outburst. How original.

“But you are asking me to do that. Aren’t you?” I adopted a more distant tone. For a moment, I’d thought maybe this woman had something more to offer. Instead, she was just another overeducated snob.

“Let’s just keep this professional, Mr. Bombay.”

“Fine.”

She looked back at her notepad. “So, why do you choose to live outside the norms expected by society?”

“I see it as an apprenticeship for a future career in the entertainment industry.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Seriously? That’s interesting. What do you want to do?” Ms. Gale began to scribble on her notepad.

“I want to be a Henry Kissinger impersonator. That’s where the real money is.”

Veronica narrowed her eyes. “That’s not funny.”

I ignored her. “But first, I have to work on my condescending attitude. Maybe you can give me some pointers.”

She started to pack up her stuff.

“Of course, the Kissinger thing might be a bit overdone these days. In that case I’ll have to fall back on my dream of studying the effects of business cards on giant, hissing cockroaches.”

She rose to her feet.

“Now, my cousin, she’s got some really lofty goals. She wants to drive an ice-cream truck. You should talk with her.”

“Thank you for the interview. I appreciate it.”

“Was it something I said?” I clutched my chest dramatically.

Veroncia Gale turned a lovely shade of red as she spun on her heel and left me. No sense of humor in that one.

Later that night as we packed up the carnival and I said good-bye to my friends for the last time, I couldn’t help wondering what would become of Veronica Gale. I’d given her some information she could use. Unfortunately, she would end up a dull college professor with no experience in real life. But I couldn’t help that. After all, Disney World and Sartre beckoned, and it was time to begin a new chapter in the life of Cy Bombay, carney/assassin.

“I think crime pays. The hours are good, you travel a lot.”

—W
OODY
A
LLEN

The plain brown envelope was hand-delivered by my cousin Paris during spring break. He was at Disney World with his sister, Liv, and her family, along with my cousins Dak and Gin and their families. Paris and Dak were on a job, unbeknownst to their sisters, and I was pretty sure Dak didn’t even know Paris was ferrying an assignment from the Bombay Council to me. That’s the way things work in this family. Everything is kept on a need-to-know basis.

I ripped open the envelope. Another job. Who would it be? A drug kingpin? Mafia? Serial killer? It didn’t really matter, because he’d be dead shortly. No point standing on ceremony.

Inside was another envelope—this one with a note from Mum with little hearts drawn on it. Apparently, I’m still her “little Squidgy.” That was somewhat comforting. I dropped her note in Sartre’s cage and she immediately began to shred it.

The arrogant face of a man named Fred Reid stared up at me. Why did I always get the big guys? Mr. Reid looked to be about 265 pounds, maybe six-foot-four. At any rate, he was much bigger than I am. While I used to not mind a challenge, in a couple of years I’d be forty and not as spry as I used to be.

According to the dossier, Freddie was the son of the English ambassador to the United States. Beyond possessing a keen understanding of the words
diplomatic immunity,
Fred was nothing more than an ignorant thug. He’d been picked up on numerous occasions for attempted murder and selling and buying narcotics, and was the top suspect in a number of cold cases, many of which included the murder of people who were supposed to testify against him. Oh, I was going to have fun with this one.

Vic was scheduled to appear at a fund-raiser in Miami with his father in two days. Not much time to prepare, and I was scheduled to work at Disney World. While that never stopped me before, I did believe in professional commitment. And I liked running the Kali River Rapids ride. Unfortunately, taking out the vic came first. Finding a replacement at Disney wouldn’t be tough. It helped to be wealthy enough to bribe coworkers. And since many were college students, finding a replacement was even easier if I threw in a bottle of booze. I always made it the good stuff, because I remembered the crap I used to drink in college. There’s nothing like a little Grey Goose vodka to break up the monotony between Mogen David and Lancers.

The drive to Miami was nice. Sartre chattered the whole time, indignant about having to leave the trailer behind in Orlando. It was like a giant playpen for her. But I needed to be in the chichi hotel where my vic stayed in order to make it work, and I didn’t want to leave her with someone else. Besides, I liked the companionship, even if the conversation was a bit one-sided.

Sartre calmed down when I gave her some fresh spinach leaves to munch on. I only wished women were that easy.

The Miami Del Rey was located on prime beachfront property. The pink Art Deco building stood out among the more modern high-rises. A five-star hotel, the Del Rey was known for its obliging staff, which catered to the wealthy and spoiled. I loved these places—you know the type—where they didn’t have a reservation desk because that would be too gauche. Instead, there was a woman sitting at a small table in an obscure corner of the lobby. She gave me my room key and made arrangements to have my luggage transferred to my room. She also slipped me her phone number. Sigh.

I reached the door to my room with no problem. Sartre was obediently quiet in my satchel and raised no alarms. She’d been through this drill before. Once inside the room, I unpacked my things, including a collapsible cage for the pig—something I designed myself.

The file included the various peccadilloes of my vic, along with his schedule. Tomorrow was the fundraiser, but Reid had the bad habit of not showing up for such events. Miami was a city crawling with vice, and with his love for gambling and—I did
not
make this up—“gender illusionists,” my guess was that Reid would be otherwise occupied that evening.

Which left tonight to do the job. Using a cheap, pay-as-you-go cell phone, I called the front desk and asked for Reid’s room. They connected me and I started the trace on my laptop. His room number came up almost immediately, thanks to my cousin Missi, who had come up with this particular technology a few months back. It looked just like a memory stick with a kitten hanging from a branch and the words
Hang in There
on it.

I changed into a nondescript black suit and headed up to Reid’s room. Walking past to make sure I wasn’t being watched, I slipped back to the room and knocked on the door. Upon hearing no answer, I slid my allpurpose room card into the slot and was rewarded with a click as the door popped open.

Once inside, I quickly checked the room for surveillance cameras and, finding none, began to search for ideas that would help me take this bastard out. It would have been easy to hide and wait for his return, but it was obvious that more than one person shared the room.

I was running out of time. I needed to find something that would tip me off to his whereabouts or plans. It only made sense to kill him outside the hotel. That would take suspicion off of me.

Footsteps in the corridor made my heart beat a bit faster. This was an adrenaline rush, not fear. I didn’t believe in fear—it only made things worse. A key card slid through the slot. I had only a split second to dive into the bathroom and close the door.

Someone was moving about the room, opening drawers and turning the TV on and off. I heard nothing for a few moments. Had he gone? I waited—not an easy thing to do in a hotel shower. I hated hiding. Personally, I preferred the direct approach. Less bullshit and more fun.

After ten more minutes of examining the tiles for mildew, I gave up. Vic must have left. Even so, I slipped noiselessly from the shower and opened the bathroom door. As I started across the bedroom, I heard a cell phone ring. I froze. It was then that I noticed my vic stretched out on the bed, oblivious to me as he answered his phone.

I remained where I was, frozen like a statue. Vic was babbling some nonsense on the phone. I was certainly in his peripheral vision. You’d think he would notice a strange blond man in a black suit standing in midstride just a few yards to his left. I’d like to think I’d notice something like that. It gave me a few seconds to think about how I could kill him.

Looking around without moving my head was a new experience for me. The room was devoid of heavy statuary, .45s with silencers (that would have been too convenient, I suppose), or even a letter opener. I had nothing on me—this was just meant to be a surveillance job. Well, I had my passkey room card, but what could I do with that besides give him a nasty plastic cut? There wasn’t enough time to wait for his cell phone to give him brain cancer, and the landline phone wasn’t big enough to bash him in the head.

Vic clicked off the phone, and that was when he noticed me standing there. Thank God too, because I was getting sick of acting like I was frozen in time. The funny thing was, he just lay there on the bed. Maybe he was blind?

I couldn’t be so lucky. He hurled the cell phone at me. I guess he could see after all. I dodged the hightech Treo as it smashed into the wall and into a million little shiny pieces. Technology today.

I reached for the lamp on the nightstand, only to find it was bolted down. Fantastic. It gave Vic just enough time to regain his senses and spring from the bed—a feat that impressed me, considering his size. I was even more impressed when he landed a hamfisted punch to the side of my head.

Bringing my knee up, I connected with his groin, groaning at his lack of foresight. Most men expect that kind of contact and block it. Not this idiot. He actually began to whimper the word
Mommy
over and over. The two of us stumbled a little, him with swelling testicles and me with a bit of a concussion. Instead of stars, for some reason I saw the kitten on the memory stick Missi had given me. After regaining my senses, I dragged his doubled-up body to the terrace. Vic groaned as I pushed open the French doors and looked over the edge of his private veranda. It was about six stories down to the pool. If I managed it just right, I’d be out the door and in the stairwell before he smashed into the concrete just to the left of the pool.

Vic was still in a fetal position. What a loser. I wished all my vics fell so easily. He was heavy, but I managed to get him to the low fence at least before he rallied and decided he didn’t fancy a swim.

The son of a bitch landed a pretty strong kick to my shin, and it stopped me in my tracks long enough for him to rise to his feet. Good. It would be much easier to shove him over the railing if he was standing. With a running start I barreled into his abdomen with my shoulder and he went over like a Slinky. I didn’t wait to see what happened. His scream told me he was on his way down and I was overdue in my own room. After a brief stop to wipe down everything I’d touched, I fled the scene of the crime.

“That did not go well,” I informed Sartre as I returned to my room. She looked at me sideways to indicate that that was
exactly
what she expected from me and went back to munching on a carrot. Since she was of no help whatsoever, I stripped off my clothes and looked in the mirror.

My face was red and starting to swell, and my right shin was bleeding. I used styptic powder to stop the blood and opened my shaving kit. Missi had invented a sort of steroid that when injected stopped the bruising process in its tracks. When I traveled, I kept the solution in bottles labeled,
Insulin.
No one ever questioned me.

The steroid would take about half an hour to work, which meant I couldn’t leave the room until then. Killing Vic in the hotel made for an interesting dilemma. The authorities could launch a room-by-room search, and unless there had just been a recent rash of brawling, I’d be the only patron who looked like he’d been in a life-or-death struggle.

Sirens blared outside and I knew it would be only a matter of time. The question was: Should I stay or should I go?